Some words glued to pages
lying still in self-arrest
pleaded silently to me:

We must be brought to life at once
to caress the clever storm
growing stronger in it’s weakness!

“What stops you then?”,
I asked,
as I shoved them in square pockets.

Just this!
Storing and hoarding
and jumbling us around;
our smell rots like waste
when collected and unused.

Scrub us clean with conscious choice
of those who choose no more;
then meet us on the other side
of a swim that comes with practise.

Uncovered there we stand
pointing light toward the ocean,
making space to lie on waves
of your very own perfection.